


Pulling against the stream

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Emetophobia, Flu, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: A slightly different take on things:  a sick and emetophobic Spencer, a helpful Hotch





	Pulling against the stream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vic/gifts).



> I've been ignoring this prompt for a long time. Sorry about that.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

Spencer knows things aren’t right when his hair begins to stick to the back of his neck.  He’s used to feeling an ache in his head and a churn in his gut.  Too much coffee, not enough coffee, leftover anxiety from the last case. General malaise is nothing new.  But this sick perspiration… It’s bad.

He glances around the bullpen to see if anyone’s watching him.  No one is, and no one would be anyway. Everyone is wrapped up in their own paperwork, probably enjoying a much-needed break from field work.  But even if one of his fellow agents did look up at him, nothing would be unusual about leaving his desk for a break.  

He’s not going to be able to keep sitting here much longer.  The dull nausea he’s been feeling since this morning keeps swelling upward, releasing bubbles of queasiness into his chest.  There’s a difference between the buzzing reverberations of a headache and actually feeling like he’s going to puke.  Right now, Spencer definitely feels like he’s going to puke.  

His breathing grows shallow as the thought brews panic.  For as bad as he’s been feeling recently, this is a new level of terrible.  Or at least one he hasn’t felt in a long time.  Years, Spencer decides.  He’d been in college last time…

He’s not going to think about it.  Sourness seeps up Spencer’s throat, and he swallows hard as he shoves his chair back from his desk.  His stomach cramps as soon as he stands up.  He does his best to keep from sprinting toward the men’s room.  

He manages to maintain a fast walk across the bullpen and into the hallway, but he tastes coffee and cornflakes and stomach acid the whole way.  As soon as he’s confident the door is closed behind him, Spencer throws himself headfirst into a stall.  He doesn’t have time to lock himself in, and the possibility of someone walking in on him plays in his mind for one horrible second before his throat goes into contraction and he loses the ability to think of anything else.  

His body puts up a fight, and he swallows involuntarily even as his jaw forces itself open.  Spencer wraps his arms around his stomach and sinks to his knees.  He hopes for a final moment that he can shove down the sickness, but then he retches hard, and it’s all he can do not to cry out as he spits into the toilet.  

The force of it coming up his throat cuts off Spencer’s airway, and as he vomits, he wonders if he’s dying.  What if the last thing he ever hears is the sound of blood pounding in his ears?  The last thing he ever sees is the mess leftover when his body loses control?  

Subconscious instinct takes over, and Spencer drags in a ragged inhalation before his throat clears, and flecks of something sour and burning fly back into his lungs.  He coughs frantically, digging his nails into his sweaty palms.  

This is the end.  It has to be.  He can’t live and be in this much agony.  His stomach, his head, his throat, they’re all melting.  He’s falling to pieces.  There’s no time to think.  Spencer doesn’t have the energy to logic through the situation.  Who cares if his body is only trying to protect itself from poison?  He’d rather just succumb and become a steaming pool of refuse on the bathroom floor.

Spencer stops hacking, but he still can’t breathe.  His vision is more shimmer than substance.  He vomits again, and it goes everywhere.  It’s impossible to get lost in a bathroom stall, but he’s somehow managed it.  Only someone with an IQ like his can be so unreasonable.  His heart hammers with the throb between his eyes.  Tension lances from Spencer’s jaw down the sides of his neck.  It would be a cruel joke of the universe if he suffocated.  Since he’s already dying.

“Reid?”  Someone touches his back, and Spencer bristles.  No one’s supposed to see, to know what’s happening.  He’s so disgusted he can barely stand himself.  He’d sooner die than let someone else see.  

“Breathe.”  A warm hand percusses between his shoulder blades.  Spencer coughs as air leaves his lungs in a gust.  He gags on a stream of bile that drips down his chin.  Somehow Spencer’s elbows find the toilet seat, and he buries his face in his forearms.

“Alright.  Try to calm down.”  It’s Hotch.

Spencer’s mortified.  Of all the people who could be here to witness what’s happening, it has to be his supervisor.  His cheeks sear with embarrassment, though he’s so near passing out that his face has to be colorless.  His throat works madly as he tries to find words to express his feelings.   _I’m sorry_  and  _go away_  and  _save me_ …

“Ok, Reid.  Breathe.”  Hotch pats him on the back again.  Spencer’s spine arches, and he coughs.  He coughs until he gags.  His vision tunnels in and out, and he tips sideways until strong arms wrap around his chest.  “Ok.  Stay with me.”

Spencer can do that.  He can follow orders.  Even if it’s the last thing he wants to do, he has to.  That makes him feel a million times worse, but at least it’s something.  And by some miracle, it’s helping.  

The taste of rancid stomach contents still chokes him, but Spencer can fill his lungs now.  Each cycle of in and out feels like an eternity.  His raw throat burns, and his eyes water.  At some point it eases into actual crying.  Spencer’s glad the exact moment doesn’t stand out.

“Alright.  Reid, you’re alright.”  Hotch pushes him gently toward upright on his knees.  At first Spencer resists, but he finds balance and leans his elbows against the filthy toilet seat again.  “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I—“ Spencer coughs.  “N-nothing.  I just…felt sick.”  It sounds so pathetic now.  He’s still nauseous; the stall is still tipping around him.  But he’s not dying.  Not anymore.  He probably never was.  “S-sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.  There’s nothing to worry about,” Hotch says softly.  “People get sick.  It’s ok.”

“I should’ve…”  Spencer trails off, scrubbing the back of his trembling hand across is mouth.  “I just…I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry.”   Hotch unwinds a length of toilet paper and hands it over.  “We’ll get you cleaned up, get you someplace you can rest.”

“I’ll g-get out of here.  I’ll go home.”  Spencer’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Hotch says warily.

“No, I’m f—“

“Don’t argue with me, Reid.  When you’re this ill, it’s not smart to be by yourself.”  Hotch puts his hand on Spencer’s shoulder.  “Jack’s with Haley this weekend.  Come back to my place.  I have a guest room.  I have supplies.”

Spencer starts to shake his head, but Hotch brings the backs of his knuckles under his chin.  “You have a high fever.  You’re vomiting.”

Spencer cringes.

“Please let me help you.”

“I don’t—“  A gag catches in Spencer’s throat, and he presses his hand over his mouth.

“We’re a team, Reid.”  He looks into Spencer’s eyes.  He practically looks through him.  “Please?”

“I…” Spencer swallows hard and lets out his breath.  “Ok.”

Hotch nods.  “Ok.”


End file.
